Regret
by Caitlyn Rose
Summary: For a long time, you, Deacon and booze are actually all pretty happy bedfellows. There are definitely mornings when he's feeling a little delicate - but more often than not, you're the one left gingerly swallowing toast and begging for a swift death as he mocks you good-naturedly. It's hard to say for sure when things start to change.
1. Chapter 1

Little regrets were completely ok – if anything, they were surely only to be expected. As an added benefit in your particular case, they could even be dredged up later on talk shows to make you seem more amusing and "relatable."

_Shouldn't have eaten the whole pint of ice cream, wish I'd never gotten that dye job in the eighties…_

Even medium-sized ones were fine. Bound to be character-building.

_That record probably could have been a little bit better, I never really wanted to move into that house…_

Big regrets, though.

As in, _big_.

Did anybody ever really admit to those? Did other people even have them?

* * *

Your father, never one to miss an opportunity for a post-dinner lecture, has you well-warned about the myriad of dangers associated with alcohol consumption. You could end up with a DUI that would stay on your record forever, essentially precluding admittance to a decent college and therefore putting the immediate kibosh on any future career success and a productive adult life. You could get date raped and not even know it. You could contract alcohol poisoning and choke on your own vomit and die alone in a ditch.

What he fails to mention during these chats, however, is that as it turns out, drinking can actually also be really, really fun - especially when undertaken with the right person. It is kind of like sex in that respect – coincidentally, another area in which your father always tended towards the hyperbolic and authoritarian.

Objectively speaking, it perhaps isn't difficult to see why, for more reasons than one, he doesn't greet Deacon Claybourne's arrival in Nashville generally, and in your life specifically, with any great degree of enthusiasm.

In the early years, Deacon rents a house downtown with a few other guys, all of whom are trying to make it in one branch or other of the music industry. The refrigerator isn't the cleanest you've ever seen, and showers are frequently either freezing or scalding, but you love the place. Somebody builds a fire pit in the backyard, and after dinner hours are spent crowded around it, all the guys and various friends and girlfriends, every second person cradling a guitar or a banjo. These, you can say without a second's hesitation, are glorious, happy memories - of warm evenings and sloppy kisses, the songs getting, by turns, increasingly giddy or increasingly honest as crate after crate of beer disappears.

In later years, as things start to pick up with your music (and you both turn 21), the two of you start to go out a little more. Deacon graduates to a Jamison's and you to a Southern Comfort, and most weekends you go to gigs and are to be seen stumbling home hand-in-hand from Nashville's finest drinking establishments. There are definitely mornings when he's feeling a little delicate - but more often than not, you're the one left gingerly swallowing toast and begging for a swift death as he mocks you good-naturedly.

Anyway, the point is, for a long time, you, Deacon and booze are actually all pretty happy bedfellows. It isn't something you worry about, or really think about much at all. Drinking isn't a crutch and it isn't a hindrance, for either of you – it's just about laughing and dancing, maybe celebrating yet another career milestone that you never really thought you'd reach.

It's hard to say for sure when things start to change. Undoubtedly after Vince dies, though probably a little bit before that as well. All you really know is that suddenly, it can't be denied that Deacon is downing those whiskeys with a little bit more fervor and frequency - but it doesn't seem like he's having much fun doing it anymore.

People start to talk, and you know that there are those who think he has let the success and the money go to his head – that actually, he's just being an irresponsible asshole, buying into the hype and enjoying himself a little _too_ much. Sometimes, when you're so frightened you're _furious_, similar thoughts cross your own mind. But then, in the quiet moments, where it's just the two of you on the bathroom floor and he's coming out of the haze, it is so searingly obvious to you that he _hates_ this now. He hates the booze and the pills and the whole cycle and himself, but he can't stop.

He _can't_.

At a certain point, of course it becomes apparent that, logically speaking, cutting all ties is your best bet. But it's hard - because of work, and because you love him so much. For his part, in his more lucid moments he tries to let you go a few times too, saying that you deserve better, that he doesn't want you to see him like this anymore. When it comes right down to it, though, the fact of the matter is that neither of you seem to be very good at staying away.

Nonetheless, during those last few years, you and Deacon Claybourne have more make-ups and break-ups than you can even remember. Certainly, you'd imagine, more than _he_ could remember. It's funny how you become almost accustomed to that rhythm of on again, off again, on again, off again. It's funny how little the formal status of your relationship ends up mattering. Either way, he is pretty much all you can think about, all the time – and often not in a good way.

Oh, undoubtedly, there are some good days along the way, sometimes good weeks or months, even - where the session guitarist you now have on a constant retainer 'just in case' is sent home, where Deacon is on an even keel and the two of you get to perform and write and kiss just like you used to. You live for these moments; you wait for them and store them away greedily in your memory, grabbing all of _him _that you can get before he goes away again.

Because of course, you also get a front row seat for the utterly fucking terrifying moments, when they roll around – rushing him to hospital, unconscious, as a cluster of strangers frantically hook him up to machines, inserting various tubes to keep his airways open and pump his stomach. The empty, heartbreaking moments, too, become a familiar scene; you argue with him and cry with him and clean up his vomit. You sit at his bedside as he is given fluids through an IV, encouraging him to take small sips of water through a straw, trying anything to make him smile.

That in the midst of all this, you are somehow maintaining a highly demanding, highly public career which requires you to attend ass-kissy events and answer questions about your outfit, seems almost laughable at times.

You hold your breath hopefully through a succession of ultimately unsuccessful treatment programmes, and feel some indefinable part of yourself harden and die as your father tells you again what a fool you are.

When Deacon goes into rehab for his fourth stint – four months in Pennsylvania - you are not his girlfriend. The programme doesn't permit contact with friends or family, and you both agree sadly that this enforced separation is probably no bad thing. Neither of you will give (or take) the space that is so desperately needed otherwise, but a break – a real one - for both of you to get your shit together and figure out what the hell you want, has started to seem like a good idea. It's probably the only thing you haven't really tried yet.

He has been gone for about six weeks when your sister starts dropping hints about some corporate guy who's just moved to town from Philadelphia. You waste no time in telling her that you can honestly think of nothing worse. Tandy is a master manipulator though, and isn't used to taking no for an answer and – the real kicker – also genuinely wants you to be happy. It is thanks to this unique combination that a few weekends later, you unwittingly find yourself sitting across a table from one Teddy Conrad.

He is nothing at all like Deacon. But it turns out that's just fine.

In the interests of Moving On, over the course of the next two months you go to some nice dinners with him or - on rare days off from a truly insane work schedule - maybe to the movies or the park. You like him, he's undeniably a likeable guy. He is easy company and good-looking and when you're not with him, you don't have to spend one single second wondering whether or not he is still alive.

One Wednesday evening, you step off the plane from an L.A recording session with tentative plans to meet Teddy for a drink, and it takes all of about twenty minutes for word to reach you that Deacon is back. You are rushing over to his house before you can even really think about it, just needing to see him with your own eyes. He's sitting on the porch when you pull up, but he recognizes your car and jumps to his feet, striding purposefully down to meet you. You launch yourself into his arms with a force that nearly knocks him backwards and he clings on to you as if for dear life.

You breathe in the scent of him deeply and when you finally speak, the words come out muffled against his chest. "You ok?"

"Yeah," he says seriously. "I'm…good, I think. All the better for seeing you." He puts both his hands on your cheeks, tilting your face up so he can look at you. "Man, I missed you, Ray."

You can only nod furiously, wordlessly, clenching your jaw to keep from crying.

The urge to kiss him, to be kissed by him, is suddenly overwhelming. Still, you force yourself to step out of his grasp, and back away slowly. Three prior trips down this particular road would be enough to make anyone a little gun shy, and you have already decided that if this time is going to be different, maybe _you_ have to be different.

"I gotta go," you say, and he nods as you turn and walk away.

You are just about to get in your car when, on impulse, you swing back around to look at him. He's still there, standing in the exact same spot, just watching you.

"I'm supposed to be doing this charity thing this weekend," you say. "It's at the Douglas Corner Café. Rehearsal's Friday morning. You in?"

He smiles. "I'm in."

And that's how you first learn to fully appreciate the fact that whatever is happening with Deacon, whatever is happening with _you_ and Deacon, he's still a damn good guitar player; that Saturday night, every single person in your band is better just because he's there – including you. Maybe especially you. Almost without you really noticing, that kid finger-picking Willie Nelson songs in the backyard, laughing as you tried to sing octaves below your range, has gone and become one of the best in the business.

Teddy, to his credit, voices no objection over the next few months when you continue to play various local gigs and showcases with your ex-boyfriend, or when you cross the room to go talk to him at events. For his part, Deacon doesn't ask many questions (or offer any opinion) on this stranger who now shows up at the end of rehearsals sometimes, bringing you coffee and putting his hand on the small of your back. You saw that look on his face though, when Teddy ran up to kiss you unexpectedly after the Douglas Corner show. He looked like he had been punched in this stomach – and you felt kind of like you had too.

Indeed, is an odd and slightly infuriating fact that, despite making no attempts to undermine or interfere with your fledgling relationship in any way, Deacon's mere presence in town seems to do the trick. You can tell that Teddy is getting anxious to move things forward – and really, he's such a good guy, and you like him more and more. There's no reason why you _shouldn't_ want to go to Cape Cod for a long weekend and meet his parents. That is, after all, what people do. They make plans and memories and become more invested in each other with the passage of time.

And yet.

And yet.

The uncomfortable truth is that with each day that passes – with each day that Deacon stays on the straight and narrow – you feel yourself becoming just that little bit less interested in going to Cape Cod or anywhere else with Teddy.

It's a matter of time, and deep down you know that. When it finally happens, it's backstage at the Ryman Auditorium after three nights of stellar shows, road testing some new material along with the old favorites. You're due to fly to L.A on an overnight flight just a few hours after curtain down, but Deacon stops by your dressing room to say a quick goodnight. As you thank each other for a great show, and chat a little back and forth about the buzz of such an amazing audience, you notice how clear his eyes are, how his whole face is open and expressive. He has been out of rehab, clean and sober for over three months now – a record, by quite some distance.

It hits you like a lightening bolt; this is _it. _

He has come back to you, really and truly, like you always knew he would. You can just feel it.

Perhaps Deacon says something then, some silly, familiar thing in that low whisper he always saved just for you. Or maybe you look at him for just a second too long, going for platonic friendship but missing the mark by a hair's breadth - you really couldn't say. What you can remember is the way the air around you both seems to change, and how the monumental effort that it has taken to keep your distance all this time suddenly feels like such an utterly stupid waste of energy.

And then somehow or other his mouth is on yours, and your hands are eager and everywhere. He is pulling you flush against him, and you are biting softly at his neck, soothing it with your tongue as he exhales slowly. You are watching his body move in the dim light, your breath catching sharply in your throat, and he is undressing you with that same quiet focus that first taught you how to feel sexy. And it is all just _good_.

Afterwards, it occurs to you that this probably isn't the first time a couch in a plush headliner dressing room has seen some action. But you'd wager it's not often that love has so much to do with it.

Of course, you have to leave, your plane is waiting – but you'll only be away for two days, you say, almost to yourself as much as to him. Sitting facing him, nestled between his legs with your own limbs still wrapped around him, you are thoroughly disinclined to go anywhere at this point. Deacon hugs you close, dropping his head to nuzzle at the juncture of your neck and shoulder, and you sigh reflexively.

You'll have to go and end things with Teddy the evening you land back in Nashville, you continue, a little guiltily. He just nods against your clavicle, but when he raises his head to looks up at you, you can see the relief etched on his face as plainly as day. You put your hands on his neck, your thumbs tracing lazily over his jawline.

"I love you. A lot." you say quietly.

"I love you," he returns, his voice equally intense, and you let your forehead fall to rest against his.

"You're everything," he breathes out, tightening his grip on you.

It's barely audible, but you hear it.

When Coleman calls the next night, it's probably nearly midnight. You're in your hotel room, watching something mindless on TV, and - if the late hour isn't enough of a clue - as soon as he starts to speak you can tell something awful has happened.

"...Found him at his house this afternoon…." he starts explaining, and you immediately feel physically ill.

"… Not in good shape… said something about how he thought he could be normal again, he thought he'd be able to have just one now … something about 'just one to celebrate', I don't know…. passed out cold… hospital…"

On the other end of the line, you're drifting in and out, picking up key phrases but no more. You get the feeling Coleman is probably trying his best to break this news in a sensitive yet comprehensive manner, but the effort is entirely wasted on you.

"Cole," you interrupt, with sudden single-minded clarity, "Just tell me he's not dead."

And as soon as you know that he is not, you sink right back into that strange, distant state. It's like some kind of paralysis; as though your whole body is shutting down, rejecting this information and becoming numb, whilst your heart keeps pumping loudly as a drum in your ears.

Coleman continues to speak, he seems to be talking about some kind of rehab programme now, but you are still absorbing only a few words here and there– words like "experimental" and "expensive" and "immediately."

"If you think it'll work then just do it," you hear yourself say at some point, your voice sounding dazed even to your own ears. "Just do it. I don't care what it costs, it doesn't matter."

"The hospital said they would release him sooner if he was entering an in-patient facility – I could have him there tomorrow morning."

"Great." You swallow, a bit disorientated by the apparent speed of the whole process, feeling entirely incapable of dealing with this right now. "That's … great. Do that, then. That seems like it would be… the best thing. I guess. Doesn't it? I guess it seems like it would."

"I think so," Coleman reassures you gently, starting into some more information about the center that you don't hear. "You know, Rayna," he says eventually, "he's conscious now".

Your ears prick up.

"Keeps saying he wants to speak to you. I'm in the hall right now but I could probably smuggle my cell phone into his room if you want."

You do want.

You're not even sure why, but you do.

"I'm sorry," is the first thing he says when he gets on the phone. He sounds devastated.

"You're sorry," you repeat, and it comes out in some kind of strange spluttering mixture of a gulp and an exhale. "Jesus, Deacon. I know you're sorry. I… I know you are. But…" you pause, entirely at a loss, not knowing what the end of that sentence was ever going to be.

Ray," he says, and there's a slight edge of urgency to his voice now. "Did something happen between us last night? I feel like it did, but then … I got so messed up and I don't know if I just…" he sighs in frustration, his words coming out disjointedly. "I don't know…. did we… did we kiss, or…. anything?"

He doesn't remember. Casting a hand across your face, leaning back weakly against the headboard of your hotel bed, you realize that your cheeks are soaked with tears. You don't know how long you have been crying, you hadn't noticed.

He _doesn't remember._

There was some kind of broken hopefulness to his voice as he trailed off, and you can tell that he wants desperately for it to be true – that he wants _you_. Of all things, you have never, ever doubted this. You know that Deacon Claybourne loves you like you know your own name. But you can see now that this disease won't ever let him go – and it will take every beautiful, precious thing with it until there is nothing left of either of you.

In that moment, it occurs to you that, ok, maybe the highs mightn't ever be quite as high with Teddy Conrad, or with someone like him.

But the lows sure wouldn't be this low.

You swallow thickly, ignoring the taste of bile in your mouth. "No," you say. "I'm with Teddy, you know that. Just…go to Utah, Deacon."

When you hang up the phone, you cry and cry until there is nothing left inside you.

Six weeks later, you discover you are pregnant.

* * *

This one took a while, would love to hear your thoughts! May write a second part if i get a chance, exploring Rayna's thoughts throughout Maddie's childhood on the whole paternity thing, so if that seems like something you'd be interested in, let me know!


	2. Chapter 2

You don't even think about not keeping it.

Maybe that's odd, but for whatever reason, you just don't, not for a single second.

When you eventually take the bull by the horns and knock on Teddy's door, it's with the full intention of breaking the news and ending things with him in one fell swoop. Somehow or another, though, things don't go quite as you imagined. He doesn't throw anything or call you a whore; he proposes instead.

You tell him you need time to think about it, and for the next week, you do little else.

It's not like you're waiting for Deacon to miraculously show up sober or anything. Before even telling Teddy, you had accepted the fact that Deacon was evidently not going to be part of this equation. That half-formed dream you'd harboured all these years of the two of you, married some day, playing music on your own terms with a couple of little people waiting side of stage was just that – a dream. A fantasy. Wanting it wouldn't make it real – it would just make everything more painful.

You think you'd make an ok single mom – there would be speculation in the press, of course, but that's never registered particularly high on your list of concerns. And money wouldn't be a problem; you could get help if you needed to. But, then, you really do care about Teddy. He is offering you something functional and grown-up - an opportunity to feel in control again and draw a line under all the chaos of the last few years once and for all. In the end, it's the thought of your baby and the memories of your own childhood – with a largely absent father and a mother who always seemed sad somehow, before she was gone altogether – which finally swing it.

Once you've decided, the wedding is put together in less than two months. Looking back, it's all a bit of a blur. One of the things about fame, though, is that your whole life is thoroughly documented without you having to lift a finger; google images becomes a veritable scrapbook of your personal ups and downs and trips to the grocery store. When you come across pictures from that time, you can't believe how awful you looked – bony and sallow and just exhausted. Why or how nobody said anything is a mystery to you.

In retrospect, there is a definite possibility that you should have been headed for a therapist's couch or some kind of island retreat, not the alter. But at the time, you wanted it. You really did.

A week before the big day, you call Deacon. Tandy keeps saying that you don't owe him anything, but you can't help feeling like you do. As soon as the pleasantries are dispensed with, you spit it out in one hurried mouthful: _I'm pregnant and Teddy and I are getting married_.

The whole hideous thing is over quickly and he doesn't ask questions or try to change your mind. Your sister seems to take this as further evidence of his self-involvement. You, on the other hand, recognize it for the immense act of selflessness that it in fact is, and you are unspeakably grateful for it.

After that phone call, you don't see or hear from Deacon for another fourteen months.

It's the longest you have ever gone without each other.

As it happens, though, you have a few other things with which to busy yourself. Your baby girl is born at 8:27pm on the 14th of August, and Teddy is there to cut the cord. He tears up when she is put into his arms, and a nurse snaps a picture that will sit on his dresser for years to come.

Later, when it is just you and Madeleine alone in the hospital room at night, you gaze, exhausted and awe-stricken, at this tiny bundle nestled against your chest. Of course, there has been no paternity test yet. But looking down at her face, at her little upturned nose and long eyelashes and perfect mouth and perfect ears and perfect _everything_, you know exactly whose child she is.

She is _yours_.

That is all that seems to matter now.

The new sense of responsibility is almost overwhelming – yet with it, there is relief too, and excitement and confidence. After all, your first, and possibly most important, act as her mother has already been completed; you have given her the best damn father you could find. In that moment, you don't see how you could ever, ever regret this.

The months which follow are an education. You don't know much about babies and Teddy knows even less, but somehow, you figure it out together. The love of this little girl bonds the two of you in a way you could never have predicted. No-one else delights in her every smile quite the same way you do, no one else worries equally over every sniffle. Without you even realizing it, the world shifts so that the center of both your lives is the same fixed point, and that feeling of solidarity - of being in this thing together, forever - is powerful and comforting.

You know that Deacon got out of rehab after six months. According to Coleman, he's been staying with his sister in Alabama since then. Really, though, he could be pretty much anywhere for all you know, doing god knows what with god knows who. It would be a big fat lie to say that you stop thinking about him altogether - but you do stop comparing Teddy to him. This life now, this relationship, feels like such a fundamentally different endeavor from anything you've known before that there is simply no comparison. It's about co-operation and appreciation and building a family. The ability to find the perfect melody for some new lyrics or make your spine tingle before you've even fully woken up in the morning just isn't particularly relevant anymore.

There is, as it turns out, more than one version of love. And sometimes, it looks like a glass of wine being pressed into your hand after a long day, or like a man hauling his ass out of bed at 3am so that you don't have to.

One Spring afternoon, when your daughter is about eight months old, you are walking her along the river and you see a familiar face coming towards you. You are so wholly unprepared for this moment that you almost turn the stroller around and make for the opposite direction. Of course you don't though, and soon he is right there in front of you; a living, breathing Deacon Claybourne.

"Hi, Rayna" he says quietly.

He looks fifteen years younger than the last time you saw him, which is to say, he looks his actual age again.

"H…hi," you reply falteringly.

"So this is Madeleine, huh? Coleman told me," he adds by way of explanation.

You nod, your mouth dry. "We call her Maddie."

He peers into the stroller. "Hey, Maddie," he coos gently and you'd swear your heart stops for a second. "Look at you. Look at you, you're beautiful."

He looks up and smiles. "She really is beautiful, Ray. So you and Teddy are officially hitched now, huh?"

Even though he already knows it's true, you still find it hard to really look him in the eye when you confirm it.

"Well," he says contemplatively, squinting at you in the sunlight. "I guess that's that."

An eternity later – or what feels like it - he cracks a wry smile. "I'm sure Lemar's thrilled."

You don't really know what to say – you haven't really known what to say for this entire conversation, so paralyzed are you by fear and shock - and thus you don't say anything at all. It doesn't take too long, though, before you just can't help yourself.

"So you're…you're doing good?" you venture.

"Yeah. Been sober about sixteen months now. Figured it was time I get back to my life."

"That's amazing," you say softly. "Really. I… I'm proud of you."

He shrugs. "Couldn't have done it without you. I never would've been able to go to The Phoenix Center at all if it wasn't for you, Ray. Thank you."

You frown in confusion before realization dawns.

"Oh, you mean the money? Deacon, I… _of course_," you say disjointedly, your voice thick with emotion. "I was happy to do it. Happy probably isn't the right word, but… you know what I mean."

"Well, it wasn't just the money," he corrects gently, serious eyes fixed on yours. "That's for damn sure. But that was part of it – I guess there ain't many people in my position who'd even know someone with that kind of cash. Probably even less'd know somebody willing to give it to 'em. I don't take it for granted, Ray. I'm gonna pay you back, just as soon as I can."

"You don't have to do that."

"I want to."

"Look, Deacon," you say, biting the inside of your lip, "every dollar I ever spent on rehab was probably every bit as much for me as it was for you. You _know_ that. You just…stay healthy, and that'll be repayment enough as far as I'm concerned. That'll be plenty."

He nods, and you can tell he's about to make his excuses and go. Suddenly, the thought fills you with panic. With no forethought whatsoever, you reach out and grab his hand.

"I…." You halt with a sigh. You don't know quite what it is you truly want to say, and even if you did, you probably wouldn't be able to say it anyway.

"It's nice to see you, Deacon," you manage, with a small smile.

He stares at your joined hands for a long moment, before looking up to meet your eyes.

"It's nice to see you too, Rayna," he returns quietly.

You can't help but wonder about all the things _he's_ not saying.

Still, you know better than to ask.

Maybe that's progress.

Later, when Maddie's finally down for the night and you're watching some sitcom with your husband's arm around you, your mind races silently. Every detail of the encounter is rehashed, your entire mess of feelings picked apart and shoved away again. How strange it had been, to have seen him out of the blue like that, to have had to be so careful around each other.

As for the other thing, you had felt that somehow he would have been able to tell just by looking at you – or by looking at Maddie. He would have been on to your lie in two seconds flat, and you wouldn't have had it in you to directly deny it. But the fact was, you hadn't needed to do anything of the sort. Maddie's conception, as you are all too painfully aware, was one big blank to Deacon, and apparently no great revelation had occurred to him in the interim.

You tell yourself, not for the first time, that it is probably for the best. Sixteen months was a long time, sure; you really meant it when you said you were proud of him, and there is a part of you that wants to sing from the rooftops with joy. But then, you know how quickly it can all be washed away in a mouthful of Jack Daniels.

You have been sucked into this particular vortex one too many times – or jumped in willingly – and you have more than yourself to consider these days.

It's hard to be specific, but it probably takes about three years for you to start to believe – like, really, truly _believe_ – that there will be no sixth go around in rehab for Deacon.

One day, Teddy is away on business and Watty White is having a huge Memorial Day barbeque at his house. You go along with four-year-old Maddie and – as is so often the case - quickly find yourself ensnared by a rotation of people who are much more interested in conversing with you than you are with them. At a certain point, desperate to extricate yourself and get some food, you realize your little shadow isn't in her usual spot beside you anymore.

Immediately, irrationally anxious, your eyes dart around, searching for Maddie. As it turns out, she's just a couple of feet away – with Deacon.

The two of them don't really see much of each other. Needless to say, he never comes to the house, so it's really just if you run into him around town and happen to have Maddie with you, or at occasional events like this. Added to that, outside of her own home, Maddie's normally a pretty quiet kid, not particularly given to performing party tricks or demanding attention. Nevertheless, she always seems happy to see Deacon. You think maybe it's because he has never tried to ingratiate himself with her, in that overpowering way that adults often do with children. He pretty much just treats her like a human being – he is kind to her and interested in her in his usual low-key fashion, and he lets her set the pace.

When you see them, he is hunkered down at her level, smiling, and she is laughing her little head off, in the midst of telling what appears to be a very animated story. You would be willing to bet it's about Ben Meyer's birthday party yesterday, attended by none other than Mickey Mouse himself. She steps backwards, a little startled when she almost collides with a passerby, and Deacon puts his hand protectively on her back, pulling her closer to him, encouraging her to continue speaking.

Absolutely unexpectedly, you feel the breath being sucked from your lungs. The woman in front of you is still chattering away about her extremely talented niece, or neighbor or something, and probably you will be required to respond at some point - but you can't take your eyes off the sight in front of you.

You are in thrall, and the realization, when it comes, is visceral and devastating.

There is, you can see now, a distinct possibility that you have seriously, seriously fucked up.


	3. Chapter 3

You're not an idiot, you don't exactly expect it to be a breeze when you broach the subject with Teddy. Neither, however, do you expect it to be such an unmitigated disaster.

The gamut of emotions is covered, in grand style. Confusion, fear, anger, hurt – that's the biggest thing, really; he is so, so incredibly hurt that you could even have suggested this. It's all just bad, and it brings a tension into your home that has threatened to rear its head on a few occasions previously, but has never quite imploded in this fashion.

Teddy Conrad is a wonderful man, there's no doubt in your mind about that. He has been such a rock these past years, such a good friend and partner to you. Any basic standard of decency tells you that, having held up his end of the bargain with complete grace, he doesn't deserve to be repaid this way, by the very scenario he was so set against from the beginning. And the thing is, when you really think about actually telling Maddie the truth, you don't even know how you would go about it. Right now, she is happy. As far as she's concerned, she _has_ a daddy, and a great one at that. It's hard to see how thrusting another one into the mix could add anything to her carefree four-year-old life but uncertainty and conflict.

On the other hand…Deacon.

Deacon.

You feel like you have to fight for him somehow, like you are his only advocate here – which is probably pretty ironic given that this situation, this lie, is entirely of your making. But then, four years ago, three years ago, your decision hadn't even seemed like a real decision; it had just seemed like the only option.

Since then, you have watched from a safe distance as Deacon has come back to life, as he has slowly built his sobriety into something solid, something you can trust. Now, _keeping on_ keeping this secret suddenly feels like a choice, and it feels like you are making the wrong one.

You decide to talk to Coleman about it. He's the only person you have, really - Tandy somewhat tanked in value as a confidante when she let a few too many details slip to your father once. She said it was an accident, and you sort of believed her, but still, you could definitely have lived without it. Old daddy dearest had waited years to have something this good on you, and he certainly hadn't ever let it go to waste. But, that was another story.

Coleman doesn't tell you _not_ to do it, exactly. But he's cautious. The risk of unbalancing Deacon with something like this is massive, he says, so you need to think very carefully about _how_ you do it. The time, the place, the people present, what exactly you plan to say – all of these things need to be just right to avoid it ending with a relapse.

A relapse.

_A relapse, a relapse, a relapse._

You lie awake for weeks thinking about it.

The idea of destroying everything Deacon has worked so hard for might be more terrifying than anything else about this whole situation, and that's saying something. Night after night at 3am, with your husband lying asleep beside you, you start to wonder if maybe you should just leave well enough alone. Perhaps it's a kind of selfishness, wanting to bring this up now. Three people's lives changed in an instant on your whim; three people potentially irreparably hurt. Four, counting yourself.

The next thing you know, you are pregnant, and it seems like a sign from above. You don't generally believe in such things, but on this occasion you find yourself willing to make an exception. The Conrad family, you are reminded once and for all, is your future. Surely it is worth protecting. It is worth prioritizing.

If there are some sacrifices to be made, if there appears to be some collateral damage along the way, then so be it. Maybe, you muse, this is the case for every happy family; a best friend is left out in the cold, in-laws grumble, that promotion or trip to Europe falls by the wayside… At least in your situation, you suspect that, in the end of it all, Deacon will probably benefit as much as anyone from you just keeping your big mouth shut.

Your second daughter arrives the following February, an agonizing three weeks late, but utterly adorable in every way. She papers over those tiny cracks in your marriage beautifully, and harmony – indeed, elation – is restored. A couple of months later, when you start to feel a bit more like yourself again, you find your mind wandering more and more to something you haven't thought about properly in quite some time.

Your job.

Not being a mom – the other one, the one before that.

You have done little things here and there, just to stay in the game – a guest spot on Garth Brooks' album, that cover song for a charity record, various promotional events. That aside though, it has been over five years since you last toured or released any new material of your own. Drowning in diapers, signing along to every song on _Barney and Friends_, you start to fear that if you don't do it now, perhaps you never will.

In the meantime, Deacon has been busy. Without much fanfare, he put out a couple of independent records, happily ignoring all the major labels that were lining up to take him to dinner. He started getting a little more involved on the production side of things here and there too, you think. Mostly, though, he's been writing. More and more, he seems to be working with younger artists on co-writes, but he's sold several of his own songs too. One of them even went to number one on the billboard charts a year or so back.

It's a funny thing, you always think, how a single song can mean so many things to different people. _Like Yesterday_ is probably the soundtrack to millions of first kisses across America now, and just as many break-ups. George Watson, you imagine, pretty much sees it in terms of the hike in tour sales it earned him, plus that CMA nomination to boot. To Deacon, that song ended up meaning a small fortune and a slew of singers clamouring to work with him.

For you, it was a sudden three-minute punch to the stomach, followed by a good six weeks of driving with the car radio off.

Maybe if the two of you were big talkers – if, when your relationship ended, you had aired every little thing until mutual closure was achieved, if, even as exes, you were constantly having cosy heart to hearts – then it might have been different. But the truth is, you and Deacon never really talk about the past at all.

You can remember one time, back when he had been home again for maybe a year, you ran into each other at the cemetery, of all places. You had sat together on that bench opposite the grave and talked about Vince for a little while; it was hard to believe how many years – to the day, in fact - it had been since he died. Deacon was doing so much better with it than he ever had before though. Somehow he seemed finally to have divested himself of all that self-loathing, the guilt you always considered entirely irrational anyway. It had probably been the first time you ever let yourself hope that the fifth time really could be a charm.

Anyway, you had to go, you had some things to drop off at FedEx for Teddy before the end of the day, you said.

"Are you happy with him, Ray?" Deacon had asked suddenly, a bit awkwardly, and you could tell he'd been thinking about this, that he was only doing it now because he didn't know when he'd get another chance

"Yes," you answered simply. Truthfully.

"Like… I mean…" - he managed to properly look at you at last - "like you were with me?"

"Come on," you murmured with a small smile, gently deflecting. His eyes wouldn't let you go, though, and you sighed, casting a hand across your face.

Even as you spoke the next words, you tried – as you would so often in later years - not to give in to the sentimentality of the moment.

"I was happy with you, Deacon," you said slowly, almost matter-of factly, "in a way that…pretty much defined happiness in my life."

The obvious fly in the ointment – that the two of you just hadn't been able to make it last – went unmentioned. It wasn't any the less heard.

"You're doing so good now, babe," you added after a moment, and you remember wincing a little internally as the old endearment slipped out unbidden. "I am too. I think… I don't know, maybe this is just the way it was meant to be for us."

"Yeah," he had replied hollowly, the tip of his pinky finger just barely grazing yours on the wooden bench.

Ever since then, there just hasn't seemed to be much else to say, you suppose.

So, you still get your little peeks into Deacon's soul. But usually only after some other singer, four producers and two label execs have all had their hands on it first. It's a little more diluted that way, a little less raw, but that's probably for the best. It stops you from drowning in it.

It means that when the two of you see each other face-to-face, you can have an easy conversation about mutual friends, or about general happenings around town and in the business. People even see you laughing together at events sometimes, and joke about what remarkably civilised exes you seem to be. Indeed, you have so much in common, and you are still such quintessentially compatible people, that things have always been warm and friendly between you. Resolutely friendly.

There is a line, though. You both know it, and you give it a good ten foot berth on either side at all times.

As a result, it is probably a bit of a surprise to Deacon when – against the advice of pretty much anyone who knows either one of you – you show up at his house one day in April and offer him a job.

Against the advice of pretty much anyone who knows either one of you, he takes it.


	4. Chapter 4

And so begin the years of recording and touring together – again.

That first go around, you're in the studio for about six months overall, but fairly intermittently, which may be why Teddy seems to tolerate it without too great a fuss. Alas, though, as the time to get out on the road draws nearer, you find yourself up against a little more resistance than you'd bargained for on the home front.

There's an army of people on these big tours, you keep saying, and a million things to do and people to meet all day long. It's not like it will be just you and Deacon anymore, singing love songs and then cosying up on the bunk beds. Except for on the stage, you'll probably barely even see each other. And, really, since the day and hour you married him, have you ever given your husband a reason not to trust you? What does it say for your relationship if he doesn't?

When Teddy finally relents, you don't know if it's the strength of your arguments that does it, or if perhaps he can just sense that this is not a battle he will win. In any case, much of what you told him happens to be true. There _are_ a lot more people involved this time around, and some of the old songs _have_ been quietly dropped from the set list. Free time doesn't (often) mean card games and Southern Comfort these days – what little of it you have is more likely to be spent on the phone with your daughters or on a red eye back to Nashville.

Still, though, the fact remains that in a lot of ways, being out on tour (being out on tour with Deacon) turns out to feel more or less exactly the way it always did.

It turns out to feel pretty damn good.

The first date is in San Antonio, and waiting in the wings that night, you are seized by the silent, sickly kind of nerves you haven't felt since you were sixteen years old. But then you hear the opening strains of that familiar guitar riff, and it feels as though something that has been dormant in you begins to ignite just a little. When you look over towards Deacon on the far side of the stage, his eyes are already on you, calm and perceptive, a brief nod seeming to tell you that, yes, you can do this. _Give 'em hell, darlin'_, that's what he used to say. And as you step out to face the crowd, you are reminded of what you had known instinctively from your first contemplation of a return to the spotlight: you could not do this without him.

Or, maybe that's not quite true. Maybe you just don't want to. It's hard to tell the difference sometimes.

Either way, on stage that night, he is everything. Even in front of huge audiences, making music is a peculiarly intimate experience, and you feel safe with him. You also, as a side benefit, happen to find him damn entertaining. You had actually almost forgotten Deacon Claybourne's capacity to energise you and surprise you, how he made you want to _impress_ him up there. You perform with and for each other, and it feels as though every tiny, tentative step over these last months of recording and rehearsing has been meant to lead you here – back to this sacred space, where there is simply no-one who knows either one of you better than the other.

Walking off after the encore, Deacon slings an arm across your shoulders just like he always used to, and somewhere in the back of your mind, it occurs to you that this is completely legit now. You're allowed to just enjoy it. And as you reach up to latch on to his fingers, smiling and waving out to the crowd with your free hand, it's honestly pretty hard not to enjoy it.

The moment you're out of public view, you turn in his arms, breathless and buzzing with excitement. You are sticky-sweaty but it doesn't even occur to you to care as you hug him tightly

"Feels good, huh?" he says, squeezing you back, sounding as close to giddy as you ever thought you'd hear him.

"The best," you reply, with an exhale that is equal parts elation and contentment. "The _best_."

You are pulled apart after that, swept away by other people clapping you both on the back, hollering and offering congratulations. Later, there's an impromptu party in the hotel with the entire band and crew, plus a sizeable contingent of record label execs and various others you don't even recognize. With everyone on a high from such an amazing opening night, drinks and laughter flow, the entire suite abuzz with music and conversation. It's frankly a far cry from your usual evenings, pacing the hallway in sweatpants with a teething Daphne, or staying up late to make a homemade lasagne which Maddie will inevitably reject unceremoniously the next day.

Of course, if you had to choose, you can say without a shadow of a doubt that you'd still take their sticky fingers and sweet smiles every time. But it's undeniably wonderful to realize that perhaps you _don't_ have to choose. Because the truth is, you like this too. You like wearing high heels and talking to other adults – ones who all love the very same thing you love, at that. You like drinking champagne and being complimented. Even if it feels a little wrong to admit it, you like being the center of attention again.

Deacon doesn't do parties much these days, but even he has made an appearance on this occasion and you've been peripherally aware of him all night. You don't know if he's been keeping an eye on you too, but he manages to catch you at a quiet moment, swooping in after a group of the wardrobe assistants decide to call it a night and leave you alone.

"Good show, Miss Jaymes," he says loftily, approaching with his flute of sparkling water tilted towards you.

"Why, thank you," you answer faux demurely, clinking your glass against his. "You can call me Rayna."

"…And hey," you add as laughs, "back atcha."

You don't tell him then that those two hours on stage were the most fun you can remember having in quite some time. Deacon doesn't admit that he really, genuinely isn't sure how he managed to go without that for so long. But as you stand there, just smiling at each other like two fools, it doesn't matter. The truth is clear to both of you: what was broken between you has finally, fully been restored. You are a team again.


End file.
